


Ripe, Strawberries Ripe

by gardnerhill



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: come_at_once, Cunnilingus, F/F, Fruit, POV Joan Watson (Elementary), Prompt Fic, Strawberries, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 16:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15029006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: Summertime and the eating is easy.





	Ripe, Strawberries Ripe

**Author's Note:**

> For the Come At Once 2018 prompt, **"ripen at your ease."** Special thanks to the hard-working folks of Rodriguez Farms in Northern California, who do indeed grow the sweetest strawberries in the farmer’s market.

Joan looked at the cornucopia of red and pink and pale yellow spread across the table like a messy bouquet. “Marthe, you didn’t have to do this!” 

Ms. Hudson smiled at Joan. “I couldn’t help it. Everything looked so good at the farmer’s market this morning that I went a little overboard. You and Sherlock will have to help me eat these.”

“At least let us reimburse you for this, farmer’s markets aren’t cheap.“

“I won’t say no!” 

Both laughed. 

This was the proof of July in New York – strawberries, cherries, blueberries, raspberries and peaches in baskets and bags. The smell rising from the ripe fruit was incredible, so lovely it made Joan Watson ache with hunger even though she’d had breakfast an hour ago. “I don’t blame you for going overboard. I know exactly what we’re having for lunch.” 

Marthe nodded. “I can throw together a fruit salad before I start my work. We’ll need a protein on the side.”

“We’ve got boiled eggs in the fridge. Too hot to cook anything today.” It wasn’t oppressively muggy out but the summer heat was enough to turn one’s lunchtime thoughts away from bread and cold cuts and toward fresh greens and beautiful-smelling ripe fruits.

Joan picked up a strawberry that gleamed like a jewel and ran it under the tap for a few seconds before biting into it. She moaned before she could stop herself. 

Marthe laughed again. “I did exactly the same thing when Señora Rodriguez gave me one as a sample – it’s why I bought a flat of them from her stall. It’s almost a shame to cut these up into a salad, isn’t it?”

“Just halve these,” Watson said with her mouth full. The peaches would need cutting up, of course, and the cherries pitted. That was going to be a lot of prep for one person. The kitchen smelled like summer fruit, and the box of cold cases awaiting Joan in the main room looked less and less attractive. “Let me find the pitter and I’ll help you.” She reached down an apron. 

Marthe moved past Joan to wash her hands at the kitchen sink. The glorious smell continued to cling to Marthe even over the scent of the cucumber soap, and Joan ached with another hunger; she pictured landing on Marthe like a bee on a flower, tongue out, licking, probing… _She is attracted to artistic men_ , Watson told herself sternly, and took her own place at the sink while Marthe aproned up. 

Marthe took charge of the strawberries and Joan commandeered the cherries, dark red and shining, and if the kitchen had smelled good before they started work the atmosphere became almost syrupy as fruit spluttered or split and bled sweet juice on their fingers, glistening as they piled up in bowls. 

Joan’s belly throbbed. Oh yeah it had been a long time since she’d had sex if a bowl of fruit was making her react like this. _Marthe, would you mind if I headed to my room to masturbate for a few minutes_ – 

“Ow!” 

Joan hissed and set down the pitter to examine her dark-red-stained forefinger. 

Marthe looked up from where she stood at the table holding two peaches. “Did you cut yourself, Joanie?”

“Pinch.” Joan put her finger in her mouth. Oh that was a mistake.

“So that’s cherry juice, not blood.” Marthe smiled in relief and turned back to the table. “The peaches are a bit hard still, they need a couple days. We’ll leave them out of the salad. Everything else is all right.” 

“Paper bags over there.” Joan told herself to wash her fingers, and continued to lick them instead. She thought of Marthe’s hands, wet with strawberry juice. Oh God. She moaned again. 

“They are good, aren’t they?” Hudson crinkled the top of the bag that now bulged with a half-dozen peaches. “Now stay in there,” she said to the imprisoned fruit, “and ripen at your ease.”

Joan could not stop the whine that came out. She fought to keep from doubling over, curled round the unfurled, gushing fruit she had become from the navel down. 

Soft, strong hands held her elbows, and the warm smell of sex and summer engulfed Joan. It wasn’t just the fruit. 

“Joanie. You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?” 

That soft, compassionate tone made Watson want to blush with shame that she thought she could deceive a woman who’d spent years as a professional Muse for wealthy artists. Of all the people in Joan’s and Sherlock’s various social circles, Marthe Hudson knew how to read sexual cues. 

“Been too long, yeah.” Joan made it as joking as she could. 

“Laying out enough fruit for a Dionysian orgy probably doesn’t help,” Marthe added – blessedly, in the same joking tone. 

“No it doesn’t.” Joan grinned. Just that little bit of camaraderie gave her a better grip on her reactions. “Give me about 15 minutes to take care of this and I can come back and finish.”

“Or I can come with you, if you’d like company.”

Joan’s entire body leaped with joy and cried _Yes!_ even as she cried “Wh- Do you _mean_ it? Marthe, I’m not your –“

“What are friends for?” Marthe smiled. “You’re hardly the first person who’s looked at me with lust – I recognize the signs. I know my way around a human body in any version it presents itself.” She cocked her head and smiled again. “And it’s more fun than vacuuming.” 

Joan laughed again. And moaned again when Marthe covered her mouth with her own. The soft wet fruit she had become throbbed and gaped, eager for the bee’s descent. “We need precautions,” she whispered wetly when the kiss ended. 

Marthe went still and gave Joan a look. 

“No no no no sweetheart, not those kind,” Joan babbled. Oh God if she’d offended Marthe – “No, the precautions for this brownstone.” And explained. “I am so sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” Marthe’s wariness was gone, now that she knew that that hadn’t been an oblique reference to male-gendered sex. With a smile that Joan mirrored, Marthe took up a small bowl and scooped a generous handful of the prepared strawberries into it. And did not wash the strawberry juice from her hands. 

The main room. The worn-soft sheet and blanket behind the sofa, spread on the rug before the cold fireplace. The Post-It on the door closed firmly to the brownstone entryway and another on the closed door to the kitchen. Marthe undressed carefully and Joan followed suit a little less carefully. 

And only when all precautions had been taken did Joan fall on Marthe’s soft, ripe body, everything open. 

They rolled together like dueling queen bees on the sheet. Joan licked the scent off Marthe’s skin, strawberry and something that was all the woman’s own, licked everywhere she found the taste of strawberries, and where that taste was missing she pressed strawberries to Marthe’s flesh and followed with her tongue. Marthe’s fingers, strong and graceful, pressed body-warm strawberries into Joan’s mouth and stayed where they were while Joan suckled the hand; Marthe’s mouth covered her mouth and licked back the strawberry taste; those hands stuffed luscious dripping fruit into Joan’s luscious dripping cunt before that mouth gluttonously swooped in to gobble up both together while Joan arched and howled. Marthe wailed as Joan’s hands took her fore and aft, probed and frotted – this, a queen’s clitoris indeed. 

They finished the strawberries afterward, heaving for breath. Joan looked around the room and saw the box full of files – enough work to keep her busy after lunch while Marthe tended to her housekeeping duties… “Oh thank God I can _think_ again,” Watson said. 

“Told you,” Ms. Hudson said.

“Thank you, Marthe.” They kissed one last time. “You first.” 

Gathering up her clothes, Marthe headed for the shower. Joan tidied the room, bundling the strawberry-stained sheet for the laundry basket.

When she heard Sherlock walk in the front door, Watson continued to set the room to rights naked as she was. The doors were still closed, and Sherlock could read; the COITUS IN PROGRESS OR RECENTLY CONCLUDED Post-Its were still in place as well. “We’re having fruit salad for lunch,” she called through the doors. “If you want to help, you can make a dressing.”

“Excellent idea.” She did not imagine the pleased sound in her partner’s voice. “Watson. May I offer my sincerest congratulations on you ending your carnal fast – and with such a worthy _paramour_.” 

Joan grinned, still too sated to be embarrassed. “It seemed the right thing to do at the time.”

“Indeed.” She heard his voice change direction as he headed toward the kitchen. “I had conjectured that this turn of events might occur when Ms. Hudson changed her perfume to one containing bee pheromones a week ago. Considering the bond you share with this new species of _Euglassia_ …”

Joan had stopped listening to Sherlock, because suddenly everything that had happened made sense. She stood, still holding the sheet that smelled of strawberries and sex. 

“Mm. Delicious.” 

“Yes, they are,” Joan replied. No doubt Sherlock was sampling the largess on the table – the gorgeous fruit that had blended with Marthe’s intoxicating new scent to drive Joan into her arms like an amorous drone. 

“Poppyseed and orange juice, I think. I’ll omit the honey, the fruit is sweet enough on its own. And there’s been enough bee activity here already.”

“All right, Sherlock, that’s enough,” Joan snapped, very much her old self once again. Fortunately the water sound stopped just then and she knew Marthe was done in the shower. Watson walked out through the hallway door to head upstairs, the sheet in front of her and her clothes under her other arm.

His voice followed her up the stairs. “Still, Watson. It is pleasant to know that Ariel had the right of it in THE TEMPEST.” 

Just when Joan faced Marthe coming out of the shower, wrapped in a towel and smiling back at her. 

_Where the bee sucks, there suck I._


End file.
